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<title>Palling Around, Metally by murderofonerose (atmilliways)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105430">Palling Around, Metally</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose'>murderofonerose (atmilliways)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ch3 can be implied Magnus/Charles if you want, Ch3 set during Dethcamp, Gen, Halloween Costumes, kloktober 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:09:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,562</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105430</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories that include the entire band, and usually their manager too. And Magnus at least once.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1125033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Water Horsey Yous</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 19 prompt, "80s fashion or 90s fashion." I went with the 80's, and made it into one of Dethklok's stupid prank ideas.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took a lot of planning. Shopping had to be done, hairstylists and makeup artists had to be booked. Charles ended up roped into the whole affair because he was good at logistics, and dutifully came up with excuses they could give to Pickles so the whole thing would stay a secret. </p><p>But, oh man, it was worth it. They all agreed later that all the hair pulling and getting poked in the eye with eyeliner pencils was worth it. </p><p>On Halloween morning—for Dethklok; for everyone else it was afternoon—the four band members congregated in the living room to aware the victim of this latest prank, which each of them privately felt they deserved full credit for. </p><p>“Nice hairs, Nathans,” Skwisgaar snickered. </p><p>Nathan rolled his eyes. “Same to you, dumbass.”</p><p>“Thesche jeansch are too fucking tight,” Murderface complained. </p><p>“They’d fine, what’s you talkings abouts?” Toki asked, adjusting his white headband. </p><p>“Easchy for you to schay! You’re not <em> fat!” </em></p><p>“Maybe you should take it easy on the Halloween candy then,” Nathan told him. </p><p>“Ja, yous belly ams getting chocolate ons it,” Skwisgaar pointed out.</p><p>“Schut up, all of you!” Cheeks burning, Murderface crammed the rest of the mini chocolate bar in his mouth and tugged on the bottom of his shirt, which was exactly the problem. Unfortunately they were all wearing shirts designed to bare their midriffs, so there simply wasn’t enough material to make any difference. His efforts did jostle his long-haired wig a little to one side, though. </p><p>“If it makes you feels betters,” Toki volunteered, “I really hates these boycow boots. They really pinches my feets.”</p><p>“Mine too,” Murderface grumbled, abandoning the shirt to adjust his hair. “Scho no, Toki. It doesch not.”</p><p>Skwisgaar stretched out his long legs and regarded his own feet in annoyance. “Mines too.”</p><p>“We didn’t have any time to break them in,” Nathan said. “It would’ve ruined the surprise.”</p><p>Toki sighed. “Its gonna makes tricks of treatings really painsful walking arounds in these pinchy boots.”</p><p>“Uh, Toki, we already told you we’re not doing that.”</p><p>“Naht doin’ what?”</p><p>They all turned in their various spots on the couch and armchairs as Pickles wandered into the room, yawning and stretching. (Nathan was a bit slower than the rest, because he had to hit send on a text real quick.) They waited. </p><p>A slow frown started on Pickles’ face as he looked around the room, taking in all the temporary red hair dye and glam metal look. </p><p>“. . . Oh fuck you dooshbags, are you all dressed up as me from the eighties?!”</p><p>His question was answered only with stifled snickering while they waited for the cherry on top. They’d had to make a lot of promises about getting back into the recording studio sometime soon, but it would be <em> worth </em>it. </p><p>“Is, ah, something wrong, Pickles?”</p><p>Full-on scowling now, the drummer started to turn. “<em> Yeah </em> there’s somethi—WHAT THE FUCK!”</p><p>The rest of the guys gave in and burst out into hysterical laughter that was absolutely going to make their makeup run. Main payout aside, the sight of Charles in his normal suit, tie, and glasses but also wearing the teased red wig with headband, red boots and gloves, and eye-catching makeup was fucking <em> gold</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dethharmonic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It was an interesting meld of genres, everyone agreed. Orchestral and death metal? Fascinating.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 23 prompt, "Dethklok music genre switch." Short and sweet little AU.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was an interesting meld of genres, everyone agreed. Orchestral and death metal? Fascinating. Dethklok drew their usual crowd of diehard fans, of course, but there were new types of faces in the crowd. The sound of excited voices rang through the hall even as far as backstage, where reverently hooded servants ran back and forth with coils of new strings for their masters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, finally, the lights dimmed. The audience cheered, then settled into an expectant hush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Onstage, the curtain rose on the musicians and their instruments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This song,” Nathan Explosion grunted into a microphone, “is how we feel about taxes. It’s called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dethharmonic.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned and tapped the music stand with his jet-black conductors baton; Skwisgaar Skwigelf and Toki Wartooth on first and second violin, Sir William Murderface on contrabass, and Pickles the Pianist all sat up a little straighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The audience held their breath. The baton twitched . . . then swept upwards, and they began to play. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After several measures, the metal band tucked down in the open orchestra pit joined in, accompanied by a dazzling laser light show from the projector the singer stood in front of. The colors varied, but were predominantly red and glinted devilishly against every bit of sumptuous gold decoration in the theatre. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The space was empty of chatter now. Even the metal heads who’d bought tickets and shown up with no real idea of what to expect were still, silent, captivated by the sheer force of the music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, the accompaniment was an afterthought, thrown in for novelty and because Explosion always wrote accompanying lyrics to go with the songs—though these were seldom published, and even more infrequently performed. It was the crisp notes of the high strings and the backbone of the lower, reinforced with powerful piano accompaniment, that everyone listened for. For anyone who had never heard Dethklok play before, it was a renaissance in music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the laser show went haywire, and sliced and diced both the metal band and some sections of the audience while Dethklok played on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, other than that, everyone agreed that it was an </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing</span>
  </em>
  <span> concert. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(No, I will not give any context for Sir Murderface. Idek. You give me context in the comments, I want to know wtf is up with that.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Camp Tipping Point</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gravel crunched under his shoes and he knew this was a terrible idea. </p><p>
  <i>or</i>
</p><p>Magnus went to Rock-a-Rooni Fantasy Camp and all he got was this stupid renewed thirst for revenge.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gravel crunched under his shoes and he knew this was a terrible idea. </span>
  <span>There was a lot of embarrassing shit he had stooped to for work, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>camp counselor</span>
  </em>
  <span>? And not only that, but camp counselor with the reminder of that of what he;d gotten himself kicked out of tied around his neck like a noose: Magnus Hammersmith, former member of Dethklok. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then . . . of all the fucking things to happen, waiting in the gravel parking lot watching the campers arrive, he spotted Toki Wartooth in the milling crowd of arrivals, wearing a hat. Worst of all, no one else seemed to notice, not even when he nudged a couple of the other counselors, pointed, and asked if that camper looked familiar. They just gave him blank stares and shrugs; he felt like the only person in Metropolis who could tell just by looking that Clark Kent was Superman. It felt like the noose tightening. He was so sure that the kid would walk up to him and say something gloating. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey old man, how’ve you been since Nathan beat your ass then threw you out on it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey old man, how do you like how much better I am in your place?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey old man, you’re such a washed up old has-been that you’re basically a never-were?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnus skipped the mess hall that night, and spent until dawn oscillating between sprawling restlessly across his bed and pacing rapidly around his cabin. The only real perk of this dumbass job, besides the free food getting paid at the end of the summer, was that he didn’t have fucking roommates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It welled up inside him, as though one drill bit of humiliation, after years of so many of them dulling and breaking against the stubborn bedrock of him, had suddenly struck oil. Dark and cloying, it bubbled up from where he’d buried it more than a decade ago as </span>
  <em>
    <span>not fucking worth it</span>
  </em>
  <span>—bridges burned, don’t even fucking go into the what if’s, it’d kill him if he did. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What if Pickles hadn’t messed with the drum pattern?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What if Nathan hadn’t turned his back on him?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What if, god for-fucking-bid, he hadn’t brought his goddamn knife to rehearsal?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because even after all this time, his actions still felt inevitable. He’d been a walking bomb back then, going through life feeling cheated and spat on anyway, unable to find anything that didn’t rub him the wrong way somehow. And if Magnus was being honest with himself, he still was now, he just . . . knew better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sort of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The black rose up, and he realized that none of those what if’s echoing in his head were in his voice. All of them were things that Charles had groaned with his head in his hands, as though Magnus was some sort of monster that would never be less angry, never get a proper hold of his temper, never be good enough without someone there to put a muzzle on. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll never fucking change, old man. Never-was old has-been with delusions that you ever mattered. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If that was how someone he’d thought had his back really saw him, then Magnus </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to wrap his noose around someone else’s neck for a chance. That was all he was good for, right? A failed rockstar camp counselor whose camper students would never really amount to anything, having come into contact with his sorry, pissed off existence even peripherally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When dawn came, he stood before the cabin’s eastern window and watched it, fuming, feeling it eat him up from the inside. It felt like death and rebirth at the same time. A hopeless victim of upbringing and circumstance, huh? A victim of the fucking band? Fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he could play that part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d pushed it down for so long, trying to convince himself he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>be different, but fuck it, what was the point? Revenge, after all these years, was finally coming in a way Dethklok and their CFO would never see coming. </span>
</p>
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